AN IDOL IN A SHOP WINDOW

Old Lohan peers through the dusty glass,

From a jumble of curios quaint and rare;

And he watches the hurrying crowds that pass

The whole day long, through the ancient square.

Wrapped in his robe of gold and jade,

Here by the window he patiently waits

For the sound that the gongs and the conches made,

In the days of old at the temple gates.

He heaves no sighs and he sheds no tears,

For his heart is bronze, and he does not know

That his temple has been for a thousand years

But a mound of dust where the bamboos grow.

So here he sits through the nights and the days,

And the sun goes up and down the sky;

But he often looks with a wistful gaze

At the crowds that always pass him by.

And his eyes half closed in a mystic dream

Of his poppy-land of long ago,

Turn back to the shores of the sacred stream

And the kneeling throng he used to know.

But he sometimes smiles as he sees the crowd

Of human folks that pass him by;

Then he wraps himself in his mystic shroud,—

And the sun once more goes down the sky.